


Seiche

by unsettled



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Alpha Peter Parker, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, First Time, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mind Bonds, Omega Tony Stark, Peter is the most anxious bean, Scenting, emotion sensing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22583692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: “Hey,” Tony says after a bit, “Peter, we should really talk about this. I mean, I can’t believe I’m saying that because when have I ever wanted to talk about things but eventually you’re going to come out of this and— shit, I have no idea what you’re going to do, kid.”“Mmm,” Peter hums, and licks over Tony’s mark.“Or— or not,” Tony says. “Fuck. Not yet, I guess. Ok. That’s fine. No talking.”Tony moves his hand then, fingers sliding through Peter’s hair softly, evenly, and that feels really nice too. Everything feels nice, Peter would be perfectly happy to stay like this forever.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 51
Kudos: 694





	Seiche

Peter scratches at his arm, restlessly. 

“Seriously, kid,” Mr. Stark says, “what is up with you and the scratching?” 

“Sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, grimacing. Crap, this probably looks really gross; he just can’t seem to stop. “I don’t know! For the last three days I’ve just felt like my whole body is itching and it’s awful.” 

Mr. Stark makes a face. “What, are you going to molt or something? That’s what spiders do, right FRIDAY?”

“Ew,” Peter says, “ew, wow I wish that picture wasn’t in my brain.”

“Yeah, well I thought you didn’t get sick, so.”

“No,” Peter says, “I can get sick still, just not for very long or very bad? Maybe it’s some sort of allergic reaction. Ugh, this sucks.” 

“Uh-huh,” Mr. Stark says, super doubtful. 

Mr. Stark had called him up yesterday to set up this meeting. “Hey,” he’d said, “I know we talked about getting together to do some work, but as it turns out I’m going to be unavailable for the rest of this week, so either we gotta bump it up to tomorrow or wait,” and of course Peter had said sure. 

Now he’s itching at his leg through his jeans. This is driving him crazy. Maybe he is molting, god please no.

He sucks in a breath to sigh and … pauses. Something smells, well, weird. Good? Weird good, how does he explain that, huh. 

He sniffs again. No, not weird, just good. Really nice actually, like, wow, really nice. Like, gasoline—ok he knows everyone seems to hate that smell but he never has, it smells good to him—like gasoline, and sorta spicy? Like fall spicy, cookie spicy? Oh, maybe cinnamon, and something sort of sharp, that almost hurts, like the air after a lightning strike. Which, ok, that sounds like a really weird combination of smells to smell nice, but they do.

It’s a little stronger now, and he sniffs, wondering where it’s coming from. Somewhere over by Mr. Stark, he thinks. He scoots a little closer. 

Wow, that smells _amazing._ It’s like when he’s super hungry and comes home and there’s already something good cooking and it makes him feel so much better about everything. Not that this smells like food or that he’s hungry, but um, that same feeling.

He scoots a little closer again, probably too close really, sniffing hard and opening his mouth at the end of his breath. He can almost taste it.

“Ok, seriously,” Mr. Stark says, and it’s like something gets flipped in Peter’s head, Mr. Stark’s voice overwhelming every other sound. “What is going on, sniffles? Get outta my space if you’re actually sick, I am a delicate flower,” and he turns, catches Peter’s eye.

Everything goes a little soft at the edges, like Peter’s just woken up from a really, really good dream, and oh, oh, that smell is coming from Mr. Stark, stronger now, amazing. Peter sighs, feeling incredibly content, and smiles at Mr. Stark. 

Whose eyes widen, dramatically, staring at Peter, and then narrow, and the scent increases, spikes, overwhelming Peter completely. He groans; oh my god, it’s so good. 

“Peter,” Mr. Stark says, “Peter, oh, kiddo, please come here.”

“Yeah,” Peter replies, and slides off his stool, standing in the space between Mr. Stark’s legs. He sways forward and runs his hand down the side of Mr. Stark’s face, and everything feels a little dizzying, wonderful. His hands slide down to Mr. Stark’s arms, tug at him, until he’s standing too, leaning back against the workbench. 

Peter crowds in, pressing himself all along Mr. Stark and nuzzles at his neck, right there, that perfect warm spot where everything goes hazy as he lips at it, that scent so thick Peter can taste it. Mr. Stark tilts his head to the side, giving Peter more, better access, his hands coming up to curl around Peter’s back. Oh, this is so, so good, yes. 

Mr. Stark’s breath catches for a moment, and his hands go tight, stiff against Peter’s back. “Wait,” he says, and Peter can feel his voice, his cheek pressed to Mr. Stark’s neck. “Wait, Peter, there’s something— there’s— we shouldn’t, something’s wrong. ”

“What,” Peter murmurs, “what’s wrong?”

“Fuck,” Mr. Stark says, “I don’t know, I don’t remember.” Peter sighs, presses forward. “It wasn’t important,” Mr. Stark gasps, “don’t stop.” 

“I won’t,” Peter says, “I can’t, Mr. Stark, I wouldn’t even dream of stopping.”

“Tony,” Mr. Stark says, and his voice has gone deeper, a little husky. “Tony, not Mr. Stark.”

“Tony,” Peter agrees, because Tony wants that and he can absolutely do that, he just, he wants to make him feel as good as Peter does right now. 

And he’s not sure—he hasn’t done this a lot, or like, ever, so it should probably feel way more terrifying than it does—but even though he’s not sure how to make Tony feel that good, kissing him seems to be somewhere to start. 

The way Tony kisses him back, demanding, pulling him closer, sure makes it feel like a good start, but Peter wants more, wants something— kissing Tony is so good but he still wants more. 

He wants that spot on Tony’s neck, wants more of it, wants the skin hidden under Tony’s shirt. Wants it, needs it, and he grabs the edge of Tony’s shirt and yanks it up, Tony making a startled noise and fighting him for a moment. 

“Want to see you,” Peter says, maybe not quite as clearly as he means to. “Want to feel you, want to smell you, Tony, I want, please.”

“Oh, fuck,” Tony says, sounding a lot more with it than Peter feels, which is good, Tony can figure this out. 

“Peter,” Tony adds, “Peter, yes, yeah,” lifting his arms and letting Peter pull his shirt off the rest of the way. He whines when Peter runs his hands up over his chest, Tony’s skin so marked, ridged under his hands and wants to feel all of it, wants to see all of it. 

“I want,” he says, thinking maybe Tony can understand that, can tell him what it is Peter wants here. He wiggles, until Tony’s thigh is snug between his legs, against his cock, until Tony sucks in a breath and rocks forward against him. “Tony,” Peter gasps, and buries his face in the curve of Tony’s neck, breathing in that dizzying scent. 

“Guh,” Tony says, and that’s not a word, Peter thinks, maybe Tony isn’t thinking any better than he is. 

Maybe he needs to stop trying to think and just do what feels right. 

He hooks his hands under Tony’s ass and lifts him up a bit, until he can set Tony on the workbench, something rustling and crackling as Tony settles back a bit. Oh, this is even better, because now that spot on Tony’s neck that he can’t seem to leave alone is easier to get to, right there in front of his face. He licks at it, and Tony groans, his legs spreading a little wider, letting Peter in closer. 

Peter brings his hand up and grips Tony’s hair; he doesn’t need to, because Tony would do it himself, he just— knows that, but it feels good to pull Tony’s head a bit to the side, until he can see how that spot is slightly raised, until he can set his teeth into the skin around it, leaving tiny little marks. 

“Peter,” Tony groans, and wraps his legs around Peter, pressing them together. He rocks against Peter again and arches his back, and there’s this new smell, this smell that’s completely different than the first one, but just as good. Just as intoxicating, maybe more, because suddenly the warm burn of want in Peter grows, turns hungry. 

“Off,” Tony says, breathy, “off, off, off,” a chant that doesn’t make sense at first, Peter stilling and then starting to pull away. “No,” Tony says, and grabs Peter’s hands, sets them against the top of his jeans. Oh, yes, yes, Peter thinks, yeah those need to be off. 

Tony is not really much help at all, because he’s so— it’s so hard to stop touching him, stop kissing his skin, so hard to focus on anything else. Maybe that’s not really Tony’s fault; after all, his hands are trying just as hard to get his pants off, and he tries to raise his ass even if he doesn’t have the leverage, but it’s still a problem. But it’s a problem Peter can fix, he’s sure of it, if he could just gather his thoughts together for two seconds.

And then they’re off and everything is so much worse, and so much better, because that smell is ten times stronger, so intense and it hooks into Peter and he can’t— he can’t even think, he just _wants._

He shoves at his own jeans and Tony is a little more helpful with that, even more helpful with getting his shirt off even if he could have picked a better time than right as Peter’s trying to kick his jeans off the rest of the way, only barely saving himself from falling over. 

Tony grabs at him, his hands so firm, calloused, and pulls him back in. Leans down and kisses him and slides his hand down to Peter’s cock and oh fucking god that’s amazing, Tony’s _hands._

“Tony,” he moans, “oh, fuck, _fuck.”_

“Oh, sweetheart,” Tony whispers. “Yeah, yes, please,” and then he’s pulling away, leaning back on his hands, what, no, he wants Tony against him. “Peter,” Tony says, and sinks further down, onto his elbows, then arches up, hissing slightly. 

Peter grabs at him, hauls him back closer because that wasn’t a happy sound. “What,” he says, “what is it, what hurts?”

Tony makes another odd noise, and then he buries his face in Peter’s shoulder, laughing, his beard rasping over Peter’s skin. Giggling, almost, and Peter doesn’t really get it, what— he’s just trying to make it good.

“What I get for never putting shit away,” Tony says. Laughs harder, and then pulls back. Looks up at Peter, his eyes going darker again. “The scent on you,” he says, “fuck, you’re sweet, Peter, so protective.” He ducks his head and looks at Peter through his eyelashes.

“Gonna save me from screwdrivers and wire spools?” he says, low, and Peter knows Tony is teasing him, is making fun of him, but it’s ok because that makes Tony happy too. 

“Mmkay,” Peter says, and swipes his hand behind Tony, pushing everything he feels aside, stuff clattering away and hitting each other, dropping onto the floor. Tony laughs even harder, right up until Peter bites at that soft, sweet spot on his neck; he likes Tony’s laugh but he can still smell that new thing that makes him shudder with want, he still wants and wants. 

Tony’s laugh turns into a gasp, and then he arches his back and pulls away again, lying back completely, his hands over his head, dangling off the workbench. His neck is exposed, bared, and then he brings one foot up and sets it against the desk, his leg falling open, that smell flooding Peter completely. 

It’s not really a thought, it’s not something he plans, but he’s moving before he takes another breath, his body knowing exactly what it wants, exactly how to take it. He slides his hands under Tony’s ass and hikes him up a little, until it’s just right, how his cock is pressing against that wetness—he’s so wet, so incredibly, amazingly wet—and sinks into him, so easily. 

Tony moans, long and loud and clenches around him as Peter thrusts further in, so insanely hot and wet and perfect, holy shit Tony feels so good. “Tony,” he whispers, and wraps one hand around Tony’s thigh, pulling him closer, deeper. 

He looks down at Tony, at how his mouth is wide open, panting; how his skin is gleaming a little with how he’s sweating, scars standing out starkly; how his eyes are hooded and dark, so, so dark. So hot, so crazy fucking hot, even hotter than anything Peter ever imagined holy shit.

Peter pulls out, Tony sucking in a breath, and then pushes back in, Tony moaning like Peter pushed that out of him. This is— this is right, this is so right, and Peter isn’t sure how he knows that. He doesn’t think he knew how it was supposed to go, how this happens, but now, now it’s so clear, so obvious. Everything feels so perfect, like he’s just following a path before him, easy to follow and exactly right. 

He thrusts into Tony a little harder, faster, and it’s loud, the sound of his hips hitting Tony’s ass, the wet sounds of Tony’s slick, the smell of it growing thicker and thicker. His arm around Tony’s thigh is the only thing keeping him from sliding too much, because Tony’s not holding onto anything, his arms limp over his head. Closer, he wants to be closer than this, and he leans down, bracing his hand on the desk just to the side of Tony’s face. 

Tony’s cock brushes against his stomach, just slightly, and Tony jerks, groans. Turns his head to the side and kisses Peter’s wrist and whispers, so softly, “Alpha.”

Everything in Peter roars up at that, feverish and needy and wanting, claiming, yes, that’s right, that’s _right,_ he is, and he growls, sliding down to his elbow over Tony, Tony’s cock pressed tight against his stomach, bending Tony’s leg back further, and fucks into him. 

“Mine,” Peter pants, _“mine,”_ and Tony whines and twists, and then he’s bringing his other leg up, hooking it around Peter and holding onto him, tight. Tony’s hand comes down to cling to Peter’s arm, wrapped around his thigh, touching him, wanting him, and that’s right too, his omega should want to hold on to him. 

Tony catches Peter’s hair with his other hand and drags him closer yet, kisses him open and messy and sharp. 

“Mine,” Tony snarls back, like Peter’s ignited the same desperate need in him as well. 

There’s a feeling, a— catch, almost, the next time he thrusts into Tony, and Tony arches his back and moans. It’s the same when he pulls out, and pushes back in, this resistance, almost, like he needs to put a bit more force into it. He does, and the way Tony clenches around him, sobs out those harsh breaths, is so good that he has to do it again, and then again, and then he can’t, he’s just— 

He’s exactly where he needs to be, and he knows it, and Tony knows it. The need hasn’t wavered at all, but now it’s all for the smallest little shifts of his hips, rocking against Tony and feeling how Tony twitches, how his cock twitches as Peter kisses him, kisses all the way down his neck and over his shoulder, buries his face against that tantalizing spot and waits, waits. 

Waits, for something, for that something more, Tony gasping beneath him, feeling like he’s being wound up tighter and tighter, Tony’s hands clinging to him. “Please,” Tony gasps, “Peter, alpha, please.”

Please what, he doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter, he’d give Tony anything. “Yes,” he whispers, his lips brushing Tony’s skin, his nose filling with that scent. “Yes, yes, Tony,” and Tony shudders, clenching around him so tightly, his cock throbbing as he comes messily all over Peter’s stomach, oh, fuck, _fuck._

It sets something off in him, hearing, seeing, _feeling_ Tony come like that, making his omega feel that good, and he feels it crawl across his skin, this almost agonizing wave of sensation, flooding him completely as he feels his cock twitch and go hotter, fuller, swelling inside Tony until he can’t move at all, couldn’t possibly get away, like there’s any chance he might want to. 

Can’t move except to sink his teeth into Tony’s shoulder and _bite,_ tasting blood and feeling how Tony shudders, moans at that, and then everything is this thick, thoughtless blur of feeling, everything good good good, too much, more than his mind can even hold. 

It just keeps going, somehow growing and growing, all that feeling in his head peaking and spreading and then there’s— there’s this other feeling, this soft, blanketing feeling that’s not just his, not all his. Is Tony’s, is his omega’s, just as happy and content and dizzy with pleasure as he is, and that’s perfect, Peter did that, Peter made his omega happy. 

He can’t quite seem to let go of Tony’s skin yet, even though his teeth have loosened a little. He worries at that spot, sucking and licking and wanting to make sure it lasts, it’s vivid and obvious and _lasting_ , the mark he leaves on Tony. Wants to know that it won’t go away, not ever. 

It’s so nice like that, quiet and everything soft and happy in his head, in Tony’s head, everything smelling so good, feeling so good, and Peter could stay like this forever. He pulls his teeth out of Tony’s skin, carefully, and kisses that spot instead, settling himself a little more comfortably on Tony, Tony’s arms still around him, but lax, almost falling. His, he thinks, his, his, his. Everything is the best. 

Tony’s been still, breathing slowly, deeply, but then he jerks suddenly, kind of painful actually, and that content feeling in Peter’s head goes weird, slides away and tilts and it gets all— tight, sharp, loud. Not good, no, that’s wrong, he wants it to go back to before, not this strange thing, this— it’s an emotion, oh, that’s what it is, it’s Tony’s emotions. It’s— scared?

Why would he be scared? There’s nothing threatening here, right? Nothing that Peter can see, or hear, and he can do that better than Tony. He can fix this though, that’s something he can do, should do, because Tony’s his omega and he should make his omega feel safe.

He pushes off Tony just a little bit, up on his elbows, so he’s kind of— looming, so it’s more obvious that he’s aware Tony’s nervous about something. He can shelter him this way, keep him warm and safe and happy, he should be happy, Peter wants him to feel happy again. 

But he doesn’t; if anything he feels more unhappy than before, still scared and that feeling getting worse, going twitchy and sick feeling in Peter’s head, panicky. “Hey,” Peter says, a little thickly, because words feel tricky right now, weird in his mouth, so he thinks them really hard too. “Shhh, it’s ok, I’ve got you. You’re safe,” and he dips his head and nuzzles softly at Tony’s neck, right over his mark. 

It doesn’t quite work either, that feeling not going away even if it doesn’t get worse again, and that’s bad, that’s— what is he doing wrong? He needs to make that go away, needs to make Tony happy again. Maybe Tony can tell him? Tony knows things, knows more than he does. 

“Are you ok?” he asks. “What’s wrong, you’re not— are you hurt? Uncomfortable? Is that what’s wrong?”

“Uh,” Tony says, slowly, and his head goes a little less sharp, a little weirdly giving when Peter presses against it, like wet sand. “I’m— ok, well, yeah, I’m not really comfy. Don’t get me wrong, you’re very— warm, and soft, but my back is not in love with this table and my legs are going to cramp sooner rather than later and—”

He talks so much, Peter thinks, it’s really nice but sometimes you have to just butt in or he won’t let you talk at all. 

“Not comfortable,” he says, and he can fix that! “What about, uh— the couch? Over there? Would that be better?”

Tony snorts, but the feeling in his head goes a little more soft, kinda plush? Amused, that’s a nice one. “Yeah,” Tony says, “sure, Peter, that sounds great, but we can’t exactly get over there while we’re knotted like this. Don’t worry,” he adds, “it’ll be fine. It’s manageable. Trust me, I’ve had sex in way more uncomfortable spots than this.”

He can totally fix that, Peter thinks. “Don’t be silly,” he says. “Here, just like, uh, wrap your legs tighter,” and he shifts a little, gets one arm under Tony’s back and one sort of cupped around his ass. 

Tony does, and oh man, oh crap, that makes everything move and it’s amazing and almost painful and fuck, Peter wants something, something— 

He moans, and Tony echoes him, going all soft edged again in Peter’s mind, bright and hot and that’s so nice. 

But Tony’s not comfortable like this, Peter reminds himself, he has to fix that, and he shakes it off, how good that feels. Wraps his arms around Tony a little tighter and lifts him up.

“What the fuck,” Tony says, startled, and Peter smiles at him. 

“Told you,” he says. “You’re not even all that heavy.” But he is warm, and muscled, and there are all these interesting little marks under Peter’s hands that he really wants to touch more. 

“Not that heavy,” Tony says. “I swear, if one more of you super strength types just picks me up again, I’m going to start wearing the suit all the time.”

Peter sighs, but it’s kind of funny, how he can feel Tony’s irritation, like fizzy water, can feel how mild it is really, how it’s just sort of layered over something else. “Pretty sure I could pick you up in that too,” he tells Tony, just for the way that fizziness grows. 

He steps back, to turn around, and gasps, because that— oh god, that pulls at everything, so much, it’s like this weird feeling that spikes all through his spine, kind of awful but he needs to fix this for Tony. 

Tony, who clutches at Peter and buries his face against Peter’s shoulder and moans with every single step, good moans, that soft feeling deepening, going hotter, so good. Peter sort of kneels on the couch; not completely because he won’t be able to keep his balance that way, he doesn’t think, and sets his hand to the back of it, lowering Tony carefully with the other. Tony doesn’t make it easy, because he’s clinging, not wanting to let go, and keeping up those low, drawn out sounds. 

He looks so good, flushed again and his expression hazy, eyes half closed, all those feelings in Peter’s head hot and intense, this textured grabby thing like suede. Peter wants it, because that’s how Tony should feel, that’s how he wants him to feel, and he sinks forward, curling over Tony and pressing them closer together. “Better?” he asks, softly.

“Fuck,” Tony mutters. “Yeah. Yeah, Peter, it’s better.”

Peter smiles, and it’s true, he can feel it too, how the sharp edges of Tony’s unhappiness have rounded off. “Good,” he says, and presses his face into Tony’s shoulder. Kisses it, and then trails up, a bit more, until his mouth is on the edge of Tony’s mark, and just breathes. 

Tony shivers a little and swallows; maybe he’s a little cold, Peter thinks, and wiggles a bit to try and cover Tony more. But all it really does is make everything shift and pull again and ugh, fuck, that is just— 

“Peter,” Tony says, kind of breathy actually, “you gotta stop doing that, kid. God,” and he closes his eyes, presses his head back into the couch. Moans when Peter shifts again to follow, keep his lips against that bond bite. “You are just, fuck, this is torture, Peter, we can’t—”

“Ok,” Peter mumbles, whatever his omega wants. 

Tony sets a hand against his head then, very lightly, and Peter sighs, nuzzles gently at that spot and just stays there, everything going a little softer again, so nice. 

“Hey,” Tony says after a bit, “Peter, we should really talk about this. I mean, I can’t believe I’m saying that because when have I ever wanted to talk about things but eventually you’re going to come out of this and— shit, I have no idea what you’re going to do, kid.”

“Mmm,” Peter hums, and licks over Tony’s mark. 

“Or— or not,” Tony says. “Fuck. Not yet, I guess. Ok. That’s fine. No talking.”

Tony moves his hand then, fingers sliding through Peter’s hair softly, evenly, and that feels really nice too. Everything feels nice, Peter would be perfectly happy to stay like this forever. 

He can’t; there’s some reason he can’t, even if it’s a little outside of his reach right now, but he knows he can’t and he doesn’t like why he can’t for some reason, so he’s just going to— to ignore that, and just think about how warm Tony is and how his scent has shifted, not really different, but that sharp smell he couldn’t quite figure out going sharper, like something cold. How the cinnamon has softened instead, gone sweeter and almost, maybe thicker? Weird, but nice. 

“Peter?” Tony says, a little softer than last time, and there’s this new, filmy, delicate sort of thing, sort of like— oh, ha, like a spiderweb, but not like his webbing, like real webs. A little drifty and fragile and he’s really not sure what that is at all, but it’s slowly coating everything else in Tony’s head. “Still out of it?”

That’s a question so he should probably answer it, but it’s not a question that really makes any sense, so how is he supposed to answer it? Maybe it just means Tony is thinking too much; he nips lightly at Tony’s mark, a little warning, and then sets his teeth back into the red marks he’d left before and bites down, not that hard but enough. 

Tony moans, such an awesome sound, and tilts his head back, to the side, giving Peter all of that skin, perfect, so good. 

“Ok,” Tony gasps, “ok, I’ll take that as a yes. God, Peter.”

He drifts like that for a while, thoughts slowly surfacing, connecting to each other. He can’t stay like this, because this isn’t something you can stay in forever. Because— because it’s, it’s a heat, right, Tony’s in heat and Peter’s taking care of it for him, that’s nice, Tony’s nice, Tony deserves to be taken care of. But he shouldn’t— huh, he shouldn’t be able to help Tony like that, right? He doesn’t think? No, he knows, why does he know that, why is this all weird, he’s— Tony’s an omega but Peter, Peter hasn’t— 

It’s like that last thought is the one to drag him up out of the pool he’s been sinking into, a slap of cold air that wakes him up, wakes him right the fuck up, oh my _god._

He whimpers, and sucks in a sharp, sharp breath, jerking his head back from Tony’s— Mr. Stark oh god fuck he’s lying on top of Mr. Stark he’s lying— he’s _inside_ Mr. Stark fuck fuck fuck; he yanks away, up on his arms and shoving his chest away from Mr. Stark’s, only for his legs to tighten around Peter. 

“Stop,” Mr. Stark says, harsh, and Peter shudders; he has to get off Mr. Stark, he has to, to leave him alone oh god.

“No, no, _no,”_ Mr. Stark says even sharper, almost panicked. “You can freak out all you want kid but do not move! Peter, _stop!”_

He freezes, because Mr. Stark told him to, and— fuck, fuck, no he absolutely should not move because they’re knotted oh _shit_ they’re knotted, he knotted Mr. Stark oh my god. 

“Right,” he says, his voice sounding stupidly high, “right, right, I got it, I— I understand oh fuck ok, I’ll just, uh.” He closes his eyes and can’t help how his whole face scrunches up. 

“Breathe,” Mr. Stark says. “It’s ok Peter, it’s— everything is going to be fine, it will. You gotta calm down.”

Peter opens his eyes and looks down then, looks at Mr. Stark’s face for the first time since he’d realized just what was going on. “I’m so sorry,” he says. 

Mr. Stark sighs. “Ok, look, it’s— it’s alright, Peter. Come on, lie back down a bit, you can’t be comfortable like that.” Peter shakes his head, frantically; no way can he lie back down on top of Mr. Stark! “Come on,” Mr. Stark says, a little more insistently. “You’re letting me get all cold.”

And _what the fuck,_ Peter doesn’t even think about it, doesn’t even mean to, but he reacts to that without the decision making its way into his brain at all, sinking back down until he’s just on his elbows, pressed back against Mr. Stark, their faces way too close. He sucks in a breath and then turns his head away, tucks it back down into the curve of Mr. Stark’s neck, not quite touching him.

“Ok,” Mr. Stark says. “It’s ok, kid. This is all going to be— I mean, believe it or not, this is not the most awkward thing that’s ever happened to me, well, actually, that’s probably pretty believable. Not even the most awkward thing someone has caught me doing, which is maybe a little more believable, right? Peter?” He can’t— he can’t even reply, because even if that’s true it’s totally the most for Peter please let this be the most ever for the rest of his life.

“Right,” Mr. Stark says, a slower, and there’s this weird crackly feeling in Peter’s head, like static feels. “It’s not even the worst thing either, that’s. Wow, really true, it’s not, uh. It’s. It’s going to be ok.”

Nothing is ok _at all_ oh my god, Peter thinks. What the fuck what the fuck what the _fuck._

He’s an alpha. Seriously, an alpha, he never in a million years would have thought he’d be an alpha, he hadn’t shown any of the normal pre-presentation signs. No one would have guessed he’d be an alpha! He’d been like eighty-five percent sure he was going to be a beta when he finally did present. But no, he’s an alpha oh man what is he going to do, he can’t like, be all alpha like, people are going to think he should be but he’s not and MJ is going to make so much fun of him and he’s an alpha what the fuck. 

“Peter?” Mr. Stark says, and Peter shakes his head; he seriously cannot even begin to talk about this yet. 

Because he’s an alpha, and he’s an alpha that’s knotted with _Tony Stark,_ and he’s an alpha that just, took the nearest omega like some kind of awful primal bullshit creeper, those guys are so gross and he just did that. Like wow, it’s bad enough that he presented in front of someone, that’s so embarrassing; how did he not recognize any of the signs that he should get the fuck home until he wouldn’t be flooding with scent? But ugh, then he had to go and do it in front of Mr. Stark, that’s just— ok, he’s just going to curl up and die of embarrassment right now, right here, and then he’ll never have to talk about this. 

“Hey, kid, come on,” Mr. Stark says, “calm down, you’re winding yourself up so tight— it’s fine, I promise, I’m not angry, ok? I’m just— we’ll figure this out, Peter, you’re not going to get stuck with this whole … thing, uh. You’re getting lost in there, breathe.”

And he can feel it, can feel this sort of, thick, heavy, watchful thing, this worry, that Mr. Stark is worried, oh god no that’s so bad, that’s so, so bad, he can feel that and that means Mr. Stark can feel him and that means Peter went and _bonded him_ , he didn’t just knot the nearest omega he bonded them oh Jesus. 

He bonded Mr. Stark. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, and then pulls his head back so he can— well, sorta look at Mr. Stark, even though he really doesn’t want to. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” he says. “I’m so, so sorry, holy crap, I can’t believe I just. I didn’t mean to but I did and I’m so sorry, I, I— I took you and bonded you against your will and I just, oh my god I’m so sorry, I promise I’ll break it, just as soon as this, uh.” He stumbles to a halt, because yeah, they’re … they’re still stuck together so. That’s. That’s a thing. “Um,” he says. “Just as soon as I can I’ll break it, Mr. Stark, I promise I will.”

“Peter,” Mr. Stark says, and he’s pretty sure it’s not the first time Mr. Stark has said it. “You have got to calm down a little.” What does panic feel like, Peter thinks, what is Mr. Stark feeling from him? Sharp, he remembers, sharp and twitchy like there are ants in his head, yeah, that’s not a nice feeling, he needs to stop doing that. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, I am, I’m just, it’s all— I can’t believe I did that.”

Mr. Stark lifts one hand and catches Peter’s chin, tilting his face up a little more, over, until Peter really can’t avoid looking at him. 

He doesn’t look angry, Peter has to admit. He’s totally seen Mr. Stark angry way too many times to not recognize that, and he doesn’t … he doesn’t feel angry either. Worried, yeah, and still, still kinda sharp and unhappy, and something gross and oily and clinging that’s suffocating, and he’s looking at Peter like Peter’s some kind of puzzle he needs to figure out and what is that supposed to mean?

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” he says again, and it catches in his throat a little bit, and no, no, he feels like he’s going to cry, he doesn’t want to cry in front of Mr. Stark.

“It’s ok,” Mr. Stark says again, that oil slick feeling getting worse, and then his hand slides up and curls around the back of Peter’s neck. He tugs at Peter, and Peter lets him pull his head down, until it’s back in that same space, right up against that mark on Tony’s skin, that mark Peter left there when he bonded Mr. Stark like he’s some sort of _animal._

“Shhh,” Mr. Stark whispers, pressing him a little closer, and then— oh, god, that smell, he knows it’s Tony’s scent now, spikes, pushes at him so hard. He moans, can’t stop himself, and presses his mouth to Mr. Stark’s skin, unthinkingly. 

It helps, the way Tony just drowned him, shoved him back into that weird calm space. It’s even not as bad when Peter comes back out of that haze enough to be embarrassed at how he’s nuzzling at Mr. Stark’s neck again and stop, though he doesn’t move away. He feels like he can breathe again, and while everything is still really bad, it’s kind of at a distance for now. He’s such a mess, he doesn’t know anything at all; Tony does, and can just handle him and what kind of crap alpha does that make Peter?

He’s an alpha, and he bonded Tony Stark, and he— wow, he, he fucked Tony Stark, he— it’s a little fuzzy but he does remember it, and it was so, so good, it was amazing. He did that, and he— he had sex, finally, and it was with Mr. Stark, _insane._ Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined that. Ok, well, no, that’s a lie; in like, his wildest, wildest dreams he’s imagined it, had thought about it _a lot_ but that was like. Obviously never going to happen. But he did, he had sex for the first time with Mr. Stark and he bonded him and— oh, oh no, what if he fucked up everything for Mr. Stark and Miss Potts? He’s not sure they were bonded but they could have been and he might have broken that when he did that and even if he breaks this as soon as possible it’s still— really bad, oh _no._

She won’t blame Mr. Stark though, right? It’s totally absolutely not his fault at all! It’ll be ok, they’ll just— they can rebond, they totally can. They have to, they’re so right for each other. 

Cause man, Peter is so not right for Mr. Stark. And that, that— hurts. He really wishes that— that this had happened differently. That is had been because they wanted it to, because Mr. Stark wanted it to, because that’s what he really fantasizes about sometimes, not this awful thing Peter did. It’s really, really dumb, to even think about that when he’s daydreaming ridiculous things, but them bonding— he wanted that, even if it was impossible, and he has it and there’s a big part of him that doesn’t want to break it at _all._

And that’s dumb and mean and selfish, because Mr. Stark has someone who he actually loves and it’s not Peter, and seriously, why would Mr. Stark ever, ever want him? Like, in what possible universe would Mr. Stark ever have bonded with him if Peter hadn’t forced it?

He’s been managing not to like, really really cry so far, but it hurts, how much he wants this, how much he wishes it was real, hurts and lodges in his throat and doesn’t go away no matter how many times he swallows. He blinks, hard, and feels it anyway, the drops that catch on his eyelashes for a second before the drop. 

“Oh, no, kid,” Mr. Stark says. “Don’t cry, please. It’s going to be ok, you don’t have to be upset, we can fix this. God, that’s awful, all ashy, don’t cry.”

It’s not going to be ok though, no matter what happens. “Sorry,” he whispers. 

Mr. Stark just smooths his fingers through Peter’s hair and wraps his other arm around him, and it’s wrong, Peter’s the alpha here, he should be taking care of Mr. Stark. 

It’s nice, though.

He gets it back together after a bit. Sort of. “Peter,” Mr. Stark says, “can you talk to me yet? Wanna tell me what happened?”

Wow no, he does not, but he’s pretty sure that wasn’t really a question. He sighs. 

“There was this smell,” he starts. “And it was like, so, so good, just like, the best thing ever and I wanted to smell more of it. I mean, uh, I know it was— you, now, but I didn’t then.”

“What kind of smell?” Mr. Stark says, curious.

“Cinnamon,” Peter tells him. “And gasoline, I think, sorta, and this sharp thing? Um, kind of like a thunderstorm. But not quite? And kind of like the workshop sometimes too, I don’t know what it is.”

“Huh,” Mr. Stark says. “Kind of chlorine?”

“Yeah, actually!”

“Bet it’s ozone,” Mr. Stark says. “Weird mix.”

“It’s nice,” Peter says firmly, because it _is_. “It’s a little different now, but it’s still nice. 

Mr. Stark laughs a little. “Whatever you say, kid.”

“So, yeah, I smelled that and it was awesome,” Peter continues. “I just sorta wanted to like, sink into it. And then you said something and looked at me and it was crazy, it was like everything else faded, like literally, fuzzy and distant. All I could think about was you and wanting— um. Yeah.”

Mr. Stark hesitates a moment. “You, ah, pushed at me,” he says. “I don’t think you meant to, it was just, presenting and how that fucks with you anyway, and then I was there.”

Nooo, Peter thinks, oh man, he is just. The worst. “I’m sorry,” he says, _again,_ because that’s so rude. So super rude, ugh. You don’t push at people, yuck. Not unless you’re like, at one of those clubs or something, not that Peter would really know cause he’s never been to one but he’s heard— but it’s still _rude_.

“See,” Mr. Stark starts, then sighs. That awful, oily sticky feeling is back, heavier, thicker, layered on every feeling in Mr. Stark's head; what _is_ it, Peter wonders. 

“I changed our meeting because the original date was going to be during my heat, which has gotten so completely fucked up I have to schedule it like a board meeting, except I don’t actually have to go to those, so—” Mr. Stark sort of stumbles to a halt for a second. “Right, anyway, it wasn’t supposed to start until sometime tomorrow, maybe the day after. Should have been fine to have you over, although— well, it maybe, maybe wasn’t the safest thing, even outside of you presenting.”

“Which is all a really long way of saying this isn’t all your fault,” Mr. Stark adds. “I was closer than I should have been in mixed company, so when you pushed, it just … tipped me over into heat a bit early.” He sighs again. “And then that caused my scent to spike, and that spike is probably most of what slid you from presenting into rut.”

Peter jerks. “No,” he says, thinks. Seriously, no, no way, that’s— “It can’t— that wasn’t rut, right? Not really, it can’t have been, rut is like. Oh, shit,” and he pushes up a little, until he can actually look at Tony. “Are you ok, Mr. Stark?” he says. “Like really really ok? Did I hurt you? I didn’t think— it didn’t feel like I thought rut would.”

“I’m fine,” Mr. Stark says. “No, really, I’m fine! Why does no one ever believe me? Just because I haven’t been completely honest about it a few times, seriously— you didn’t hurt me, Peter.”

“But— but that’s— I mean,” Peter says, “ok, yeah, I couldn’t think, and I did just like, take you, so maybe it was rut but if it was, how did I not hurt you at all?”

“It— it wasn’t quite a typical rut,” Mr. Stark says. 

“What does that even mean, Mr. Stark?”

“Hey, come on, Peter,” Mr. Stark says. “It’s kinda weird for you to be calling me Mr. Stark when we’re knotted. I have a name, you know.” Which … wasn’t really an answer of any sort, ugh. He hates it when Mr. Stark does that, like he really thinks Peter is just going to get distracted and forget— he might get distracted for a bit but he doesn’t actually forget. 

He frowns, and Mr. Stark huffs out a breath, that fizzy annoyance popping away. “I’m not sure,” he says. “It might have just been because it was your first one, or because presenting disrupted it.”

“I— I guess,” Peter mutters, because that doesn’t sound quite right, but he thinks Mr. Stark is telling the truth about not being hurt at least. 

“So, you know, this isn’t all your fault, Peter,” Mr. Stark— Tony, says. “You can stop beating yourself up quite so much, you’re all—” he reaches up and touches Peter’s forehead, gently. “All spinning out,” he says. “Tastes like zinc, ick.”

“Sorry,” Peter says. He just— he can’t do anything right, he’s so—

“Hey, no, Peter,” Mr. Stark— _Tony_ says, a little softer. “You don’t have to be sorry for that.”

He is though. It wasn’t nice, when Tony felt unhappy, and it can’t be nice feeling now that he’s unhappy too, but he can’t stop. Everything is such a huge mess, he made this such a huge mess. He fucked up everything and he did it in the worst way, like he’s the _worst_ kind of alpha, and he doesn’t want to be. He could have hurt Tony so badly and it’s only luck that he didn’t, and now he’s some kind of freak that didn’t even present right, doesn’t even have ruts right.

And he still really, really doesn’t want to break this bond. It’s so selfish but he doesn’t _want_ to. 

He’s so _stupid._

Tony jerks a little, and all Peter can think, despairingly, is how that must have felt—tasted?—awful, he’s still fucking up. “Yikes,” Tony says. “I don’t know what the was, but ouch, Peter. No, no, not me ouch, I mean, yuck, coffee grounds. You … hurt? Yeah, you’re hurting. Really hurting, and something else... What’s going on in there?” and he taps Peter’s forehead again. 

Peter turns his head away. “I,” he starts, swallows. Fuck, he might as well just say it, it’s not like this can get any worse, right? “I don’t want to break the bond,” he says, small, quiet. “I will, I will, I promise, but. I don’t want to.”

“Kid,” Tony says. His mouth twists, like he’s tasting something else bad. “Look, you— you shouldn’t bond the first omega you fuck. Especially not when it’s an accident like this, but you really shouldn’t regardless. It’s not a good idea, not if you want things to last,” and that filmy feeling is back, but brittle this time, more like wire than webs, like it’d hurt to touch. 

It makes sense, what Tony’s saying, but it just— just hurts more, really. “It’s not because you’re the first,” he whispers. “I don’t want to break it because it’s _you_ and I— I know, I know it’s dumb, I mean, I know you don’t want me, it’s not like I’m a good alpha or, or like I can offer you anything and you have your pick of alphas and anyway you deserve a lot better than some stupid teenager like me.”

“Whoa,” Tony says, and he doesn’t want to feel it, but the sharp pop of Tony’s startlement snaps in his head. “Hey, that’s my line. You deserve a hell of a lot more than me, Peter. Trust me, there are far better omegas for you out there.”

“I can’t imagine how any of them would be better than you,” Peter says, “And like, I’m just. I’m nothing special, really.”

“Wow, ok, we’re going to scan you after this for, I don’t know, a concussion or something,” Tony says. “Because that is insane, kid, that is literally insane, of course you’re special.” 

Peter shakes his head. “If I hadn’t been bitten, I’d still be nobody, you’d never have even known who I was. That’s the only special thing about me.”

Tony sucks in a breath, and then Peter jerks, because that—whatever that was, that sudden, painfully sharp burst of too many things all at once, too many to even start to sort out but all of it awful and painful and vicious—that _hurt,_ what did he do wrong?

“That’s far from the only thing special about you,” Tony says. “Don’t you say that, don’t think that, you’re— that bite didn’t change a thing about you except how your body works. Everything that makes you exceptional was already there.”

It’s not like Tony knew him before, so what does he know, Peter thinks. But he’s … he’s just going to shut up now, there’s no point. The more he talks, the worse the hole he’s in gets. Tony doesn’t want him, obviously, of course, and Peter is going to get something right today and break this bond. 

If they ever unknot; is it supposed to take this long? 

“Peter, seriously,” Tony says. “You’re wonderful, and I’m sure you’re going to be a great alpha. Already are, hell. You’ve got to see anyone would be lucky to have you. You’re not stupid, kiddo.”

Sure, Peter thinks. Anyone, except you. 

Tony’s breath catches; he rubs at his forehead, and Peter feels another wave of misery crash into him, because he’s hurting Tony, still. The sooner they break this, the better. 

“Aw, fuck,” Tony mutters, and drags his hand over his face. “Peter. Sweetheart, look, it’s not … ok. I’ve had a lot of heats. A lot. I think we can agree on that, right? I know how heats work.”

Peter nods, reluctantly.

“None of my heats have ever been anything like this,” Tony says. “This is not how heats are supposed to go. This is not how ruts are supposed to go. This was … amazing, and perfect, like some sort of stylized dream of those, and that’s— that’s how it’s supposed to go for Matches.”

“What,” Peter says, and he feels like he’s been hit over the head, he can’t even think. “Oh my god,” he manages, because— because _Matches_ , holy shit, that’s— Tony’s his Match, _he’s_ Tony’s Match, that’s insane. 

And Tony probably figured that out thirty minutes ago and still wants to break this; that thought alone is more than enough to completely kill the giddy rush Peter had gotten at the thought of them Matching. Tony thinks that and is still feeling all these awful, painful things. Tony believes that, and still doesn’t want Peter. 

Because he loves someone else. Right. He has to remember that. But they’re Matched, part of his brain just screams at him, people step aside when that happens, because it’s— it’s the _dream._

No, he tells it, no, because Tony loves someone else and doesn’t want his Match, doesn’t want _Peter_ and how does that even, why— “What about Miss Potts?” he says.

“Uh,” Tony says, wrinkling his brow. “Ok, I’ll bite. What about Pepper?”

“I mean,” Peter says. “She’s— you love her, want her, and I broke that. Like. I get that you don’t want me, but will she— some people get really weird about bonding one of a Matched pair, what if I messed that all up for you?”

“Peter, I’ve never been bonded to Pepper,” Tony says, slowly. “You didn’t break anything, you didn’t ruin or get in the way of anything,” and that seems impossible, ok, Peter has seen them together! Has seen how they act around each other, what? 

“It’s not about not wanting you,” Tony continues, “of course not, you’re amazing. God, I would love to stay bonded to you, more than anything, but it’s just— it’s not practical at all. It’s not good for you even one bit. Matching isn’t everything, Peter, it doesn’t solve everything.”

“Wait,” Peter says, and he— did he really hear that, did Tony really say that? “Go back,” he says. “You said you do want me, you do want to stay bonded. Right?”

“But it’s a terrible idea,” Tony says, and that’s not a no. 

That’s not a no. 

“You want me?” he says, and then, when Tony just stares at him, doesn’t say no, starts to smile, and this is— this feels unbelievable. “You want me,” he says with more certainty, and Tony opens his mouth but doesn’t correct him. 

“I am not the kind of omega that’s good for anyone, Peter,” Tony says, and that oily feeling is back, is sticking to the wire webs that are all over everything, are just coating every thought Tony has, layers of this stuff, what is it?

“Yeah, whatever,” Peter says. “We’re _Matched,_ that kind of means we’re good for each other.”

“No, listen to me,” Tony says, and that’s almost his angry face, almost but not quite. “I am not a good omega, Peter. I’m not the kind that behaves and takes care of people and gives an alpha anything easily, you’ve got to see that. I can’t— I’m way too old for you, you’re not going to be able to have a life with me, you’re not going to be able to— someday you’ll want a family, Peter, and I can’t give that to you, I’m too damaged to ever carry. I’m not going to make you happy, kid.”

Tony believes all that, Peter thinks, he can feel it, and maybe it is all … technically right, but that doesn’t make him bad for _Peter._

And nothing in there had been ‘I don’t want you.’

“Don’t care,” he tells Tony. “I still want you.”

Tony shakes his head, slowly. “It doesn’t matter what either one of us wants,” he says. “There are— so many reasons not to and only one reason to, and while I’m normally a big fan of doing things anyway—” He stops, and Peter can feel this thing, that he can’t identify at all, slick and hard and it’s like it’s shoving at him. 

“I want you,” Tony says, and Peter has just long enough to feel a burst of relief before Tony continues. “And I don’t want you bonded to me.”

Why, Peter thinks, why, why, why? He opens his mouth to ask and then gasps, Tony’s breath catching as his eyes go wide. 

It’s really, really weird, how it feels to have his knot—he has a knot, that’s still completely what the _fuck_ —shrink, how it’s such a relief, this feeling of pressure and this thob he’d almost tuned out, in time with his heartbeat, fading away. And so awful at the same time, how it leaves this horrible ache, that just radiates up through his whole stomach, how he feels so insanely sensitive, raw. 

It’s even worse when it finally slides all the way out of Tony, really freaking cold when the air hits the wet mess all over it, that he can feel dripping down off it, all of his come and Tony’s slick and holy shit— He stares at Tony, frozen, and Tony stares back, looking almost as startled as Peter feels. Should he— is there like, something he should do now, something a good alpha would do, to make Tony feel better, because he can feel how Tony is back to feeling that spikey, twisty misery. He feels so lost, so completely different from earlier when everything seemed so easy and right.

Slowly, he leans back, starts to sit back on his heels, and it feels unpleasant to be away from Tony now, feels like he should be holding onto Tony more instead; is that just, a, a rut thing? A bond thing? Or is it a Match thing? How can he tell? Does it even matter, because Tony doesn’t want this bond. 

Tony pushes himself up a little as Peter moves back, neither one of them quite looking at each other, not saying anything. Peter settles all the way back, kneeling, his cock lying against his thigh, and wow, that’s crazy, he can still see this— bulge, this redder spot where his knot was, still is a little. He glances away, cause it’s probably kind of weird to just like, stare at his own cock when someone else is there, then his eyes catch on this, this— wet, shiny line on the couch, between Tony’s legs, growing as Tony pushes himself away from Peter, up against the other side of the couch, this line of come and slick that must be leaking from Tony, oh fuck. 

He really, really wishes he could control how he blushes, but he’s tried and it’s impossible; he knows right now he’s turned bright, bright red, can feel it, tight and hot all the way down his neck, ugh. 

He looks up, embarrassed all over again—he doesn’t want Tony to catch him staring at that either, yikes—and Tony’s staring at him. 

They just … they just stay like that, staring and silent, like neither one of them knows what to do, who should move first, and Peter can feel that cold, slick thing creep in again, like it’s muffling what he can feel of Tony’s emotions, smothering them. 

He wants to stay bonded, so badly, and Tony wants him, and it’d— it’d be easy to stay bonded, he _wants_ it, but. But Tony doesn’t. Tony doesn’t. He keeps telling himself that, again and again and again, as he reaches forward, kneels up a bit until he can place his hand flat against the bond bite, covering it. 

There’s a twitch, in his mind, the second he presses his hand against Tony’s skin, a twitch that makes that slick thing shiver, and grow, colder and harder and awful, really really awful, and— oh. Oh, it’s, it’s more than misery, it’s bigger, it’s this utter despair. 

Tony _doesn’t_ want to break this. 

“Please,” Peter says, softly, his voice cracking a little anyway. “Please don’t make me do this.” 

For a long, long moment, everything is the same, is just as frozen and awful and unchanging, and then Tony closes his eyes. Closes his eyes and tilts his head back and does something, does something that sets every single feeling inside Peter’s head on fire. 

He gasps, and Tony groans, and everything, everything is so much, he can’t— everything he was feeling from Tony before is like a ghost now, compared to how strong Tony’s emotions are, how _many_ of them there are. So, so many, the sensation of them overwhelming; why is this different, why is it more?

“Tony,” he says, and it’s maybe a little panicky, he wants to know— he doesn’t know what but this is so confusing. 

“Shit,” Tony says, “I’m sorry, Peter, I didn’t mean to— you weren’t ready, I shouldn’t have,” and then those emotions thin again, shift like they’re being dragged away.

“No,” Peter says, “no, no, don’t,” and he needs them back, he needs all of it back, he doesn’t care if it hurts, it’s Tony and he _wants_ it. 

He tightens his hand on Tony’s neck, over the bond mark, and pulls himself closer, climbs right on top of Tony and presses as much of their skin together as he can, those emotions flaring up again, blazing, almost enough to blind him. “Don’t hide them,” he begs, “please, please don’t.” 

Tony shudders, and then they’re back, they’re all back; it’s a little easier this time. Peter tightens his grip on Tony and tucks his head in against Tony’s neck and sinks into all those things Tony’s feeling.

So many, and so many of them are sharp and burning and painful, are hurting Tony, are making him unhappy, no. 

He sinks into them, more, and starts carefully following each thread, each sensation, until he’s figured out what it is. This, this sticky, clinging thing is doubt, and that’s dumb, that’s a stupid thing for Tony to feel, there’s nothing to doubt because Peter has him now. And that, that spiky, tense thing, that’s fear, bigger and nastier than before, and no, no, Peter isn’t going to let that stand either.

“Peter,” Tony says, startled, bright bubbles of surprise, “what are you doing, what— that’s— what are you _doing?”_

There, that ugly, oily thing, that sticks and slides at the same time and feels awful, that’s guilt, for absolutely no reason, Tony shouldn’t feel guilty about anything. And those webs, the sharp metal ones that do hurt, that cut when Peter yanks on them, those are Tony, not liking himself, Tony thinking that he’s not the best, he’s not good, he’s a failure, no, no. They’re _junk._

“Those are bad,” Peter tells him, distracted. “Those are just— they’re _wrong_ and they’re making you feel bad and they’re junk feelings, they’re garbage, you don’t need that.”

“What?” Tony says, and oh, huh, confusion is like, cottony, fluffy. But sticky, maybe more like cotton candy, obnoxious.

“They’re bad,” Peter repeats, because sometimes you have to tell Tony things a couple of times before they really sink in. “You’re amazing and not a failure at all and I won’t let anything hurt you and you’re my omega now, I won’t dismiss you no matter what. You don’t need to keep feeling those stupid things and I can take care of that and I’m your alpha so I should and I will.” And he does, he yanks on those threads leading to those thoughts that are hurting Tony and makes them just. Makes them. Well, he doesn’t know how to describe it, because he can’t get rid of them entirely, but he can make them less, he can make them set aside, where they can’t hurt as much.

“What the fuck,” Tony breathes out. 

It’s better, it’s way better, but there are still things in there that are hurting Tony. There’s something that’s painfully cold, glittery; something almost as cold and dusty instead, dust or snow or something like that, gritty; something that’s smooth and seamless and kind of vibrates and he’s not sure what any of those are but they’re hurting Tony too. 

“Wait, Peter, Peter, wait!” Tony says, sharper. “Kid, stop.”

“But they’re hurting you,” Peter says, and he can _fix_ that. 

“It’s ok,” Tony says, bringing his hands up, pulling Peter’s head back, away from the warmth and smell of Tony’s neck. “It’s just how it is, Peter, that’s just— it’s just having lived, you can’t just get rid of it.”

“But—”

“Alpha,” Tony says, his voice harder, insistent, and you don’t ignore that tone from an omega, not if you want to stay in one piece. “Enough.”

“Ok,” Peter says. Sighs. “Ok, Tony. If you don’t want me to, I won’t.” 

“Fuck,” Tony mutters. “What am I going to do with you? You’re going to just— alpha your way into everything, aren’t you. You’re so stubborn, so sneaky, I should have known you’d present as alpha.”

“No,” and Peter pulls back a little, shaking his head like maybe that will clear his mind a little, will pull him away from this place he’s down in. “No, I— I’m not going to do that, I won’t, I don’t want to be that kind of alpha.” He looks down at Tony. “I just want you to be happy,” he adds, a little plaintively. 

Tony pauses. “Yeah,” he says slowly, “I can tell, actually. You do. And you don’t want to act like that, huh.” 

Peter blinks, because nothing ever talked about this sort of thing; like, he hadn’t done a lot of looking into alpha stuff cause he wasn’t going to be one, but he doesn’t remember seeing anything talking about this stuff in omegas or betas either. No handy little booklet; What to do when your omega’s mind is unhappy and they don’t want you to mess with it. Ok maybe that’s a little long but. What— 

It’s not that Tony’s emotions are gone, but if he pulls back a bit, doesn’t focus on them, they’re more like a stream in the back of his head, like he’s standing in it and feeling it roll around his ankles but not pull him in. 

“Can I?” he asks.

“Can you what?” Tony says. 

“Uh. I’m not sure, just,” Peter sighs. “I won’t do anything like that again, but can I look? Is that— ok? Not just like, feel what’s shoving at me, sorry, that was like, rude, wasn’t it. It was just a lot all at once and I wasn’t sure. I didn’t know. Um.”

“Jesus,” Tony says. “I— wow, ok. Yes. You can look. What am I even saying,” he mutters.

Peter tries to be careful, this time; it’s not like he wasn’t last time but, more careful, even. Skims things a little, and then there, underneath the feeling and sensation, there are these fragments of sound, almost. These bits and pieces of Tony’s thoughts or— ha! Peter thinks, smiling to himself. Seems like Tony rambles inside his head as much as he does outside of it. 

And he’s thinking, thinking about— how there wasn’t ever an alpha that wanted him enough to bond. Not one, that wasn’t after some sort of currency, not one that ever wanted _Tony._

“I want you,” Peter says, couldn’t possibly stop himself from saying. “Oh, Tony, I want you, I do.”

“You do,” Tony whispers. “I can tell. It’s not just because— That’s crazy. You’re crazy, you know that?”

Peter laughs, it bursting out of him at what he hears, so clear, what he feels, under what Tony’s saying. “No,” he tells Tony, “you don’t think I’m crazy. You think I’m wonderful.”

“You are,” Tony says, and under it, so strong, thick and plush and warm, is how much Tony adores him. Adores him! Peter! 

Tony laughs a little too. “That was nice,” he says, “like chocolate, whatever made you feel like that.” He tips his head back. “It’s— you’re happy, you’re— oh, oh no. You saw, felt— it’s because I love you.” Peter nods, and pulls away from Tony’s hands to bury his face in Tony’s shoulder again. 

“I’m never going to get rid of you now, am I,” Tony says, but his tone is fond, and his head is all warm and soft and nice. 

“Nope,” Peter says, and sets his teeth against the imprints he’d left earlier. 

Tony twitches, and tightens his hands around Peter. “Good,” he whispers.

Good, Peter thinks, agrees. Good is right. No, better than good, amazing, wonderful, un-fucking-believable, perfect. Any of those, all of those, there aren’t good enough words for how he feels right now.

“Is— is this ok?” Peter asks, after a bit, when everything still seems calm; it’s nice how he’s just been able to settle into Tony’s head and drift. “I mean, uh, should we like, move, or— how long does your heat last?”

“Couple days,” Tony says, “only about one of peak where I want to fuck every couple of hours,” and wow, that sounds … insanely appealing, fuck. 

“You like that?” Tony says, that little plush amusement is back. “Jesus, you could actually probably keep up with me.”

“Want to,” Peter tells him. “Really want to.”

Tony turns his head, and Peter lifts his a little, so Tony can see him. “There’s enough time,” Tony says. “We can totally make it to the penthouse. To a bed.”

“Oh,” Peter says, because that sounds so good, the thought of having Tony like this somewhere more comfortable and bigger and just, better, “can we?” 

“Absolutely,” Tony says, and shoves him a little; ugh, that means he has to get up. 

He totally leans on Tony a bit once they get into the elevator Tony has just for direct access to the shop, but Tony’s leaning on him a bit too so it all equals out. Balances out? Something like that. Maybe he’s not really as with it as he thought.

Definitely not, because by the time they make it up to the top, he’s gotten all distracted kissing Tony, pressing him up against the elevator glass and nipping at his bottom lip, his hand spread out over the mark on Tony’s neck. 

“We don’t need a bed,” Tony mutters, but ugh, sigh, that’s wrong, they do. Or maybe not need but they want. Peter wants. Fine. 

He pulls back even though it practically hurts. “Show me where?” he asks.

There are probably other things on the way to the bedroom, but he’s not focused on anything but Tony, on his omega, his his his fuck this is incredible.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, watching Tony, and then Tony pushes at him, sets his hand against Peter’s chest and pushes him back further. He drops back on his elbows, and then all the way down when Tony keeps pushing, and then— what, more, how, what is it Tony wants him to do? He feels all— it was so easy last time and he misses that.

“Up, on the bed,” Tony says, so Peter shoves himself up a little and wiggles back, gets his feet up, set, and pushes back until he’s all the way on the bed, until he’s near the middle, he thinks. Is that right? Is that what Tony wanted?

Apparently, cause now Tony’s on the bed too, crawling forward and over Peter’s legs, looking at him like— ugh, that is so hot, crazy hot. Kisses him, Tony’s hand sliding behind his head and holding him in place; he’d probably have a terrible case of beard burn if he didn’t heal so fast, and Peter feels something like a giggle caught in his chest. 

It’s all totally different when Tony’s in control of himself, in— in control of Peter, too, maybe? At least enough to tell him what he should do, how this should go, now, because Peter might need that now. It’s all different, but just as good. 

Tony pushes him again; Peter falls back all the way, his head bouncing against the mattress, and then Tony’s reaching up and— and getting him a pillow, oh my god. 

He grins, a little of his sudden nervousness fading, and Tony glances down at him, like he felt—tasted—that. “What?” Tony says. 

“Taking care of me,” Peter says. “It’s nice.”

Tony huffs, then grins back, a little teasing, a little more filthy, wow. “Yeah, I’ll take care of you,” he says. “Gonna blow your mind, kid.”

“Think you already did,” Peter tells him, and then Tony scoots up a little bit and puts his hand down behind him and grabs Peter’s cock oh holy shit he wasn’t kidding oh _fuck._

He groans and clutches at Tony’s legs, and Tony just laughs and sinks down further on his cock. “Haven’t even gotten started yet,” Tony says, unbearably smug, but he deserves that, it’s not like Peter even minds all that much; it’s like dragging sandpaper down the back of his spine, smugness, those kinds of shivers as good as they are annoying. 

Tony feels just as good as before, so good, hot and slick and tight around him and he can appreciate it now in a different way. He wants Tony, oh god how he wants Tony, but it’s not that insane, impatient need from before, that drove him on and on without thinking at all. Now he just wants, wants to see Tony take his time and take Peter apart for as long as Tony wants. 

And maybe— it’d been simple, easy, before, he couldn’t think but he hadn’t needed to think about what he was doing. Now it’s too easy to think, think and wonder and doubt, because he still hasn’t really done this before, like not really, he’s kissed a couple of times but does that even count? He doesn’t know what he should be doing, how he should be acting, doesn’t know what will make Tony feel good like this. 

He looks up at Tony, kneeling up over him, and he looks amazing, better than any fantasy Peter has ever had, real and solid and marked and riding Peter’s cock and oh, god, it feels so good but he doesn’t know what to _do._

Tony pauses, the little rocking movements he’d been doing stopping, and dips his head. “Hey,” he says, looking at Peter, “what is that? Like— gin; what’s wrong?”

He doesn’t know how to say it, how to tell Tony how clueless he suddenly feels. “I—” he starts, and then hesitates. Tony leans down, which feels awesome too, Peter’s cock shifting inside him, and kisses him again, softer, carefully. 

“Got it,” Tony says, and kisses him more, gently and slowly, teasing at him until Peter is all want again, is pressing up into his kisses. “Don’t be so nervous,” Tony whispers. “Isn’t something you can mess up, I promise.”

“Really?” Peter says, cause that’s nice but he doesn’t totally believe it. 

“Mmm,” and Tony grabs his hands. Puts one on Tony’s hip, pushing against it until Peter curls his fingers and sinks them into Tony’s skin, and there’s this little— spark, or something, a crackle like lighting a match. Brings up his other hand and sets it on Tony’s chest, slides it up, over his nipple, and it’s brighter, sharper this time, that sizzle pop of sensation.

“Feel that?” Tony gasps, and Peter nods. Rubs his thumb over Tony’s nipple again, and it’s like— he doesn’t even know how to describe it properly, like those weird things that snap when you throw them on the ground, but a feeling, and it’s good. Tony groans, and rocks against Peter, Peter’s breath catching. “That’s what it’s like when you make me feel good,” Tony says, “when you turn me on so fucking much— just touch me, Peter, you don’t have to wonder if it’s right. You’ll feel it.”

He will, Peter thinks, yeah, he will, and that’s awesome, awesome how he gets more of those flares, hotter and bigger as he keeps touching Tony, as he runs his hands all over Tony, over every inch of skin he can, feeling him. Feeling every mark and flaw— no, they’re not flaws, they’re just, they’re part of Tony and he wants to know them all too. He turns his head a little and tilts it up, pressing his lips against the bond bite, and that earns him the biggest, hottest flare of pleasure from Tony yet.

Tony pushes up a little then, presses his hands flat against Peter’s chest and tilts his hips and oh man, wow, that’s just— he gasps, and looks at Tony, and sees how Tony’s eyes close, how he shudders for a moment. What is Tony getting from him, he wonders, what does it taste like when Peter feels this good, this hard and wanting? 

If he presses, a little, he can get these little fragments, thin whispers of thought with each flash of pleasure, these little almost incoherent thoughts of Tony’s that aren’t much more than curses and _more_ and _Peter_ and those are really good too. 

And then he can’t focus enough to chase those, because Tony lifts himself up further this time before he sinks back down, starts really fucking himself on Peter’s cock and it feels incredible. He clutches at Tony, and Tony smirks down at him, goes a little faster. 

It’s so much to feel, outside and inside, overwhelming, and he starts moving with Tony, starts thrusting up into him as well, not just taking it. That brings out even brighter flashes of want, that seem to almost melt together, and then he can feel this— hot, too hot pulse, like a wave that hits Tony and catches him, thick and rising and almost painful. 

Tony whines, and his fingers dig into Peter’s chest as his thrusts go harder, a little uneven. He looks almost dazed, flushed, and Peter wants to feel that heavy heated weight in Tony’s head crest, can tell how it’s already shut down that murmur of thought under all of Tony’s feelings. 

Can feel, too, how his knot has started to grow, and that’s still completely wild, just, crazy that he has a knot, that he can feel it like that, how it feels tender and throbbing, every time it slides in and then back out of Tony shocking, making him jerk all over. Making Tony jerk too, making sparks that are almost swallowed up by that rising tide. 

It feels almost like he’s right on the edge of coming, as his knot swells and swells, like he’s so close and can’t quite, not quite but so close, worse and worse as it just keeps growing, as it catches on the next stroke and doesn’t come out, just pulls against Tony’s hole and Tony moans so loud. Sinks down onto him and fucks these short, fast thrusts, each one tugging hard at his knot and then it just— everything shifts, the feel of it different, better, this perfect pressure all around it, Tony stilling and clenching down on him, oh fuck, fuck.

It’s still just as insanely mind blowing when he comes inside Tony, when he can feel himself throb inside him and swell just a little more and he groans, the sound breaking as he gasps for breath. Fuck, he thinks, so distant and faint, is he holding Tony too tight, it’s just so hard not to— but no, no, there’s nothing like pain in Tony’s head at all. 

He can hear Tony panting, and then Tony’s moving again, Peter sucking in a breath at that because holy shit, that’s— that’s intense. Tony’s just rocking, squirming on his cock like he can’t stop, frantic. He opens his eyes and looks at Tony, and he looks frantic too, looks desperate, clinging to Peter and clenching down on him over and over. “Peter,” he breathes out, “Peter, alpha, _please.”_

Yes, Peter thinks, yes, yes, alpha, that’s me, I’m yours, I can— whatever it is, I can give you it, except he really doesn’t know what. “Please,” Tony begs, again, and Peter sinks back into Tony’s thoughts, looking, trying to figure out what, what Tony needs. 

There’s nothing there; or rather, there’s too much there, way too much. That rising tide, too much, blistering, has flooded Tony, is drowning him, Tony sinking under it completely, all his thoughts blotted out except need and want and please. It’s too much and Tony doesn’t want it, is clinging to Peter as hard as he can, trying to breathe, and Peter doesn’t know how to make it stop. 

It’s Tony’s heat, it has to be; maybe if he can get Tony to come it will help, will calm it for a bit. He reaches forward and wraps his hand around Tony’s cock, oh my god Tony’s cock, it’s so hot and thick and feels fucking amazing in his hand. Tony makes this high pitched, broken sound when Peter strokes him, rubs his hand over the head of Tony’s cock and smears that wetness all down it, faster, hoping this will work. 

It should, it really should, and he can feel the pressure in Tony’s head building, still, how his heat is still rising, desperate, but he doesn’t come. “Please,” Tony sobs, “please, please, _alpha.”_

He doesn’t even mean to, but there’s this thread in Tony’s mind that hooks into him, pulls this thing up out of him that he didn’t know was there. “Yeah,” he says, and his voice sounds funny, low and thick and weird, but Tony shudders and looks at him so hungrily. “Tony,” he says, in that same way, “go on, come on, let me have that, omega.”

Tony gasps and tightens all around him and then it’s done, everything breaking apart in Tony’s head and rushing forward as he comes, tearing through Tony’s thoughts and into Peter’s too, overwhelming and painful and scorchingly hot, like a flash fire, growing and growing and cresting before it washes back to Tony, spread between them and only barely bearable because of that. 

He feels like he can’t think at all, about anything, but he’s wrong because his mind is all worry and startlement and fear when Tony literally just collapses, his arms giving out, going limp. He catches Tony before he falls all the way down on top of him, and lowers him the rest of the way, slowly, turning his head to look at Tony. 

There’s a little pulse of something else, beyond that all consuming heat, cool and gentle, a little numbing. “Fine,” Tony mumbles, barely a word, and his mind echoes it too, fine fine fine. 

Ok, Peter thinks, ok, fine, Tony’s fine. He’s fine too. Everything is— is fine. Is good, actually. Holy shit is good. 

He slings his arms around Tony and holds him and it’s so _nice._

“Gah,” Tony says faintly, after a while, his beard almost ticklish against Peter’s neck. “Who’s blowing whose mind again?”

“I think it went both ways,” Peter says, “but you totally did. Yeah. Boom,” and Tony huffs out a little laugh.

Peter wraps his arms around Tony a little tighter. Shifts, to try and get Tony’s hip to stop poking him quite so hard, and Tony gasps. And yeah, it does make everything shift and that still feels really weird, but … it’s kind of funny, winding Tony up like that. He squirms a little more and this time Tony lets out this stuttering moan.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Tony mutters, but Peter can feel how he smiles when Peter laughs softly. He strokes his hand over the curve of Tony’s back; there’s a sort of oddly smooth line, some sort of wide scar that he hasn’t actually seen yet. So many marks, on Tony; he licks the one he left, kisses it.

Tony stirs after a bit, his breath huffing out against Peter’s shoulder. “I’m glad you bonded me,” he whispers.

Peter can’t help how he starts to smile. “Really?” he asks, but he knows the answer even before Tony replies, can feel this warm rush across his mind, like a breeze, like Tony’s breath on his skin.

“Really,” Tony says, and pushes up a little until Peter can see his face. “I stand by it being a terrible idea, but…” he sucks in a breath and shivers. “I’ve wanted you longer than is anywhere near appropriate.”

“It’s going to be great,” Peter tells him, and he can’t stop grinning, Tony smiling back at him, with a thread of that sticky fluff confusion— bewilderment? It’s— it’s funny, seeing Tony so off balance and happy and Peter can’t stop the laughter that just bubbles up in him. He laughs, and laughs, tilting his head back, his eyes scrunching shut as he just holds onto Tony so tight and laughs. Everything is amazing.

Tony laughs too, softer, more of a chuckle. “God, Peter,” he says. “That’s a good one. Chocolate, and coffee, and— cream? Cake? Ha! Tiramisu.” He dips his head and kisses Peter, and Peter’s more than happy to let him. “You’re sweet when you’re happy,” Tony says. 

“Gonna make me happy a lot,” Peter says. 

“I hope so,” Tony whispers.

He is. Peter knows it, _knows_ it, and eventually he’s pretty sure Tony will figure it out too. 

“Like one of those fuzzy, furry blankets,” Peter tells him. Tony’s brow wrinkles. “Your happiness,” Peter clarifies. “It’s nice.”

“Yeah,” Tony says. “Yeah, it is.” 


End file.
